To my Kind Editor
by blissfully ignorant
Summary: Lemony Snicket finds evidence that his beloved Beatrice is still alive somewhere. morp.
1. letter the first

~a/n: .yeah. I've been having some horrible writer's block lately, so forgive me if it sucks. Kindly don't flame me.I love you. *sniff* (by the way, I have a sneaky little theory that Beatrice is the Bauldilare's mother, and this story runs on the assumption that this is true.)  
  
To my kind editor:  
  
Please accept my humblest apology; I thought that I had learned not to get my hopes up.  
  
I figured that by now I would be able to slow down, not to jump on any under-founded evidence. I thought that after the Japanese grill restaurant incident I'd learned my lesson, and yet here I am. Here I am in this little hut on the cliff, waiting.waiting for what I've wanted for far too long.  
  
I was gathering information the tenth book detailing the true story of the Bauldilare children. I have decided to call this book "The Slippery Slope", as it involves a slope that is rather slippery. Anyway, for reasons I cannot disclose at this moment, I was required to work undercover in a small coffeehouse set on the side of a mountain. I worked for many days, gathering little, when suddenly entered a young woman and a young man that I was fairly certain I had never seen before. They took a seat, and motioned me over. This was suspicious to me, as I was carrying a rather heavy tray of coffee and tea and I was the only one of the staff who was busy. I delivered the hot drinks and pursued them nonetheless.  
  
My suspicions were further aroused when the two ordered a pot of Jasmine tea. The young fellow, blonde with black glasses, seemed casual. The girl, however, kept giving me significant glances, adjusting her own blonde hair as though it was a wig that didn't sit quite right. I obediently left, and returned a moment later with the tea.  
  
"I would like to name a child Beatrice," she said suddenly, turning to the boy but glancing at me from the corner of her eye, "You could call her Bea.or Trice." She stressed the last word, and fixed her eyes on my again significantly. I was so shocked that I almost dropped the tray I carried. How did she know that code??  
  
I swallowed, with a feeling like the bottom had dropped out of my stomach. "The world is quiet here," I whispered with a dry mouth, resisting the urge to nervously lick my lips.  
  
"Very much so," she responded, smiling and gesturing under the table to me. She was waving a white envelope frantically around her left knee.  
  
Taking her hint, I dropped a napkin as discreetly as I could. "Excuse me," I said, snapping up the napkin and pulling the envelope out of her hands.  
  
"What's wrong with this guy?" I heard her partner whisper.  
  
"Probably his first day," she said, shrugging as I resurfaced.  
  
"Anything else?"  
  
"No thank you," she said with a wink. I tried to walk calmly to the kitchen, but I was no more than four feet away from the table before I gave in and ran like a child.  
  
I took the back door out of the kitchen and sat on an empty crate, tearing the envelope open. Inside was a simple note in a neat, diagonal script I knew so well-  
  
Find me.  
  
That was all that was on the page, but I needed nothing more. This was it- this had to be a trick. One of my enemies found the rescue code, forged Beatrice's handwriting, and staged a meeting to lure me out of hiding and into their clutches. There are a great deal of people who don't want the Bauldilare story told, so many that I can't keep track of them all, and any number of them are capable of finding these things out. For all I know, there could be more than one of them working together. This had to be faked. I KNEW it was.  
  
Right away I quit my job and started off, bringing only my typewriter, my picture of Beatrice, and all the notes I had composed for "The Slippery Slope", because those were far too precious and dangerous to leave around. Nothing else was important at the time, although I wish I had brought another pair of socks, as these ones are soaked through.  
  
But none of that matters now. I'm headed to one of the last outposts of a noble organization. Rumor has it that there is a Bauldilare parent hiding out in the Valley of the Four Drafts, and even if it isn't Beatrice I may still get something.  
  
So you see, it is rather necessary for me to postpone work on "The Slippery Slope" until this very urgent matter is sorted out. Even though I need to take this short break, please remember that you are still my last hope for the tale of the Bauldilare children to be told to the general public.  
  
With all due respect,  
  
Lemony Snicket  
  
PS- Please do not try to contact me, as this may put you, I, the Bauldilares, and four beta fish in China to all be in very grave danger. I will be in touch as much as I can. 


	2. letter the second

~a/n: I made a mistake that I'm not sure how to correct-the temperature measurement is in degrees farenheit, since I had a particular temperature in mind, and I don't know how that converts to Celcius. My humblest apologies.  
  
To my kind editor:  
  
Please excuse how long it's been since my last letter-I've been terribly busy of late. You see, my darling, dearest Beatrice, if she is indeed alive, still has not appeared, but I haven't given up hope.  
  
If I were to give up hope, now would be an ideal time to do so. I'm sitting in a small teepee I constructed myself in the east end of the Valley of the Four Drafts. I can assure you that the valley is indeed rather drafty-it is forty degrees out tonight and it feels like thirty. But, as melodramatic as it seems, the cold without is not nearly so fatal as the cold within. This morning I found, tucked into the back pocket of the one pair of pants I must wear day and night (alas, why couldn't I pack more wisely?) another note, this more frantically scrawled:  
  
Save me!!  
  
And yet, as I sit here shivering on the cold, bare valley earth, I have no where else to go. I have scrutinized every last inch of this valley, and she is nowhere. My search for the remaining Bauldilare parent of rumor has proved fruitless, although I did meet up with a few old friends, and I am still no closer to finding my poor Beatrice, if she is alive, than a whelk is to nine gallons of lukewarm strawberry milk.  
  
Sitting out here, all alone, I wonder exactly how close that is. If only she would write longer notes!!! I've gone over my evidence again and again, not that I have much, and still I am no closer to finding her.  
  
Wait, I'll look again.  
  
See? No closer.  
  
I have decided, that as a last resort, I will check a very special place. This place, which is at a location I cannot give, is somewhere that, if she needed it, she could get a note. This place, which I cannot not reveal (if this letter were to fall into the wrong hands all could be lost, or at least temporarily displaced) is our panic place.  
  
I am afraid I cannot explain much, except that a panic place is a location a young, recently-trusted neophyte can go or at least get information to that no one else can find. The panic place is shared, usually with another neophyte, and it can provide a means of contact between the two in case of catastrophe, fire, or obcenely loud noises. I was lucky enough to be able to share mine with the love of my life. They are obscure, private places, always carefully guarded.  
  
And so you see exactly how important it is that I delay my research into the Bauldilare case, as I am rather absorbed in the Beatrice case right now. I promise that "The Slippery Slope" will happen, but specifics cannot be given because any time frame could possibly reveal how far I am from the panic place, narrowing the list quite a bit. It seems impossible, but that small risk is not one I am willing to take.  
  
Please understand how much I appreciate this, and know that you are still my last, if delayed, hope that the story of the Bauldilare children can be told to the general public.  
  
With all due respect,  
  
Lemony Snicket  
  
PS-I am leaving in the morning. Do not attempt to contact me at the teepee, and for obvious reasons I cannot reveal the address of where I will be. I will contact you at my earliest convenience. 


	3. letter the third

~a/n: Read "Lemony Snicket: the Unauthorized Autobiography". It's good sh*t. trust me, that good sh*t can come in handy.  
  
To my kind and most patient editor:  
  
I regret to inform you, from this park bench that may or may not be at least 12.78 km from the panic place, that I must take another extension on "The Slippery Slope", as I have received a very disturbing message recently at the panic place:  
  
From where I am I cannot hear bells ring. I must get out of here as  
soon as possible. I am somewhere very dark. It is so dark and it is  
very hard not to panic. This is horrible-you must stay far away from  
here if you want to see any light from the sun again. Trust me, you  
never want to be here. You must stay away; I am the only one to wait  
here. I can only remember all we shared and wait for the end of my  
troubles. I will think of all the fond memories we have created and  
wait alone for the next life. When I am an angel I will be the carrier  
of your soul-personally-and we will be happy as pigeons being fed in a  
park.  
Ring my soul to heaven when this agony relents.  
  
This letter, which undoubtly makes very little, if any, sense to you, is more vital to me than you could possibly imagine. However, it requires me to stay rather far away from any place where I could research the lives of the Bauldilare orphans. I have, however, gotten a few scraps of information by happenstance, and I will incorporate those into my data pool and manuscript while I am here. You may note that I have also included a small blue rock, smoothed by water and wind, for Mr. Helquist. This is not so much to help him with his illustrations-I feel that he has done a fantastic job of bringing my tragic words into tragic pictures and deserve a nice blue rock for his efforts.  
  
Once again I thank you for the patience and kindness you have shown me, and please never forget that you are my last hope that the tale of the Bauldilare children should be told to the general public.  
  
With all due respect,  
  
Lemony Snicket 


	4. letter the forth

~a/n: don't think your getting off this easy, folks. There will probably be a sequel to this atrocity, as soon as I figure out what the hell happens next. Thank you for your time. And I applaud you for sitting through this business.  
  
To my kind editor:  
  
I am rather saddened to announce that I must once again I will be resuming my work on "The Slippery Slope". There were no further contacts sent to the panic place. Although I still feel that the letters were authentic, something or someone has stopped these letters. I presume my darling Beatrice, once more, to be dead. I still hope she may yet be found, but there is no more I can do. I must maintain my promise, however, and I return to it.  
  
I have begun my research, and as I sit back in a tiny log cabin lodge I secretly wish the blonde couple will return with a message, a clue, anything. But in the meantime I will keep searching, change my socks daily, and wait. Thank you once more for your patience, and kindly inform Mr. Helquist that as soon as possible I will send him an object to aid him in his illustrations.  
  
Please remember that you are my only hope that the tale of the Bauldilare children may be told to the general public.  
  
With all due respect,  
  
Lemony Snicket 


End file.
